


To Each

by Mazarin221b



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Art-inspired ficlet, Blow Jobs, M/M, New Relationship, The boys are rubbish at emotions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-03
Updated: 2013-03-03
Packaged: 2017-12-04 03:37:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/706081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mazarin221b/pseuds/Mazarin221b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by some beautifully scorching fanart by DetectiveLyd, <a href="http://detectivelyd.tumblr.com/post/44414562430/lets-play-how-many-seconds-until-this-gets">which you can find here</a>.</p><p>“That’s my favorite position, you know,” Sherlock says as he strolls out of the bathroom, hair damp, dark ringlets curling over his forehead.</p><p>“Hmmm?” is all John manages, because Sherlock is wet and distractingly naked, and this thing between them is still so new and ever-so-slightly timid he’s unsure what more he could, or should, say.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Each

**Author's Note:**

> Written through a haze of cold medication, so if I screwed up somewhere, drop me a pm or something? Thanks!

“That’s my favorite position, you know,” Sherlock says as he strolls out of the bathroom, hair damp, dark ringlets curling over his forehead.

“Hmmm?” is all John manages, because Sherlock is wet and distractingly naked, and this thing between them is still so new and ever-so-slightly timid he’s unsure what more he could, or should, say.

Sherlock smiles, a slow, curling grin that sends a spark of heat down John’s spine, arousal unfurling in his belly despite how recently they’d lain in each other’s arms, sweaty and sated. Sherlock drops his towel and climbs over John’s lap, straddling his hips and bending low to brush his nose along John’s cheek, his breath gusting warm across his skin. John closes his eyes and settles his hands along Sherlock’s thighs.

“Yes,” Sherlock whispers, voice dark and dirty and low, and Christ, it is so _unfair_ how he can do that, how a simple word can leave John flushed and shivering with need. “I love your cock against my lips, the little taste of salt at the tip. I like to lick it off, make you moan. Do you like when I do that?”

“Jesus,” John gusts out, because really, how is he getting hard again so soon?

“You can’t hide anything from me, you know. And when I pull you closer, when I lick and tease and finally pull you in so you’re practically straddling my chest, fucking my mouth. I know _I_ love _that_.” Sherlock slides lower, his next words barely a whisper against John’s collarbone, long body warm and smooth against John’s. “I love to undo you, John, to bring you to the edge so you want nothing more than me, to think of nothing else but me and what I’m doing to you. It’s selfish, I know,” Sherlock presses a kiss to John’s chest, “but you’re mine, now.”

John wraps his arms around Sherlock’s waist and buries his head against Sherlock’s shoulder. His chest is tight, terrified to put a name to what is pressing against the back of his teeth. Instead, he drags Sherlock back up his body and kisses him hard, fast, without finesse or gentleness, with fierce desperation. He flips them over, pinning Sherlock to the bed, watching the heat flash in those captivating, brutally observant eyes, and settles into the cradle of Sherlock’s hips. Christ, he’s hard, too.

John rocks against him, dry warm skin catching and sliding and not enough, not nearly enough until John grabs for the lube on the bedside table, clumsily trying to catch a handful from the bottle. He pushes a hand between them and starts to slick them both until Sherlock slides up, shifts and tilts until John is brushing up against his balls, below his balls, against his arse where he’s still soft and open from their earlier encounter. John groans at the feel of it, bears forward with steady pressure until he’s seated fully inside Sherlock’s body. Sherlock gasps, arches, pulls John harder against him, building a rhythm that spirals out of control too quickly, until they’re both coming, gasping into each other’s mouths.

 John pulls back, settles against Sherlock’s chest, a bit stunned at how quickly passion flares between them, like lighting a Molotov cocktail and watching it explode, the crash and intersection of their bodies a substitute for everything John can’t make himself say.

In the end, of course, it’s Sherlock who has the words, who finds the language to settle this thing between them into something more than an occasional shag between friends. In the twilight space between sleep and waking, in the dim, soft time of early dreams, John feels Sherlock’s arms tighten around him, and a whispered promise against his hair.

“And I am yours.”


End file.
